If MacArthur Changed in the Darkness, What Changed Him?
If MacArthur had changed in the darkness, what had changed him? A dip in the seawater? It sounded like a joke, but Ridgway himself had witnessed men transform after coming face-to-face with death on the battlefield more than once.
Through the study window, the Potomac River came into view. The water was dyed red in the evening sunlight. Washington's river was peaceful. The Nakdong River would be anything but.
Ridgway rose from his chair and opened the wardrobe. A battle dress uniform hung behind the dress uniform. He took it in hand for the first time in ages.
I'm going back.
Not to a desk, but to the front lines.
Not to papers, but to mud.
Not to a pen, but to a rifle.
Ridgway reattached the grenades to his harness and spread the battle dress out on the bed. Then he picked up the phone.
"Connect me to General Collins."
"Ridgway, have you received the orders?"
"Yes, sir. One question."
"What is it?"
"Did MacArthur request me personally?"
A short silence.
"He did."
"Did he give a reason?"
"'The counsel of a senior officer with extensive experience in large-scale ground operations across the European theater is essential,' he said."
Ridgway's eyes narrowed. Experience in the European theater. It wasn't wrong. But it didn't fully explain things. There were plenty of generals with European theater experience.
"Do you think there's more to it?"
"Well, I can't read MacArthur's mind. But one thing I can tell you: it'd be good if you could see for yourself what's going on inside MacArthur's headquarters this time around."
As expected. Washington's eyes. Bradley, Collins—they were all making the same calculation.
"Understood. When do I depart?"
"The sooner, the better. I'll assign a transport plane for tomorrow."
"Thank you, sir."
He hung up. Ridgway looked down at the battle dress on the bed. The grenade harness atop the green fatigues gleamed silver in the evening light.
MacArthur.
Ridgway rolled the name around in his mouth. Hero of the Pacific. Liberator of the Philippines. And the man many called "the closest thing to a dictator in the U.S. Army." He would stand at that man's side.
Ridgway pulled out Far East materials from the wardrobe and set them beside his travel bag. Korean Peninsula topographic maps, Chinese army order of battle charts, Manchuria rail network maps. And one more thing.
He took a small notebook from the drawer. A leather-bound personal notepad. He opened to the first page and jotted down with a pencil.
Assigned as Chief of Staff, UN Command. MacArthur's change—real or an act? Must confirm.
Chinese People's Volunteer Army. Verify without fail.
He closed the notebook and packed it in the bag. Washington's night was falling. The first star rose over the Potomac. Ridgway stood by the window, gazing up at it. Tomorrow, he would fly not over this river, but over the Pacific. And beyond that, a peninsula awaited where the gunfire never stopped.
The weight of the grenades seemed to press on his chest already, even though he hadn't donned them yet.
Alright. Let's go.
Ridgway closed the curtains and left the study. He had packing to do. A general's luggage wasn't anything special. A few sets of battle dress, the notebook—that was enough. What was needed on the battlefield was always simple.
As he walked down the hallway, Ridgway made one resolution. Whether MacArthur had changed or not, he would do things his way. He wouldn't be a yes-man. He would call wrong wrong, even if it ruffled MacArthur's feathers. That was Ridgway's way of fighting wars and living as a soldier.
Click. The study's light went out. In the darkness, only the grenade harness on the bed faintly gleamed, catching the streetlight filtering through the window gap.
The telegram from Pyongyang arrived at dawn. It didn't reach Mao Zedong's hands until after sunset.
Zhongnanhai study. September's breeze blew over the lake, but the windows were shut. Mao liked the heat. The room was thick with cigarette smoke and tea aroma; the desk was cluttered with telegram paper and maps.
Mao read the telegram. Once. Twice. On the third read, his finger paused on the paper.
Kim Il-sung's style was frantic. Beneath the stripped diplomatic rhetoric lay raw desperation. Incheon had been breached. Supply lines were in danger. Seoul was imperiled. He requested support.
Mao set the telegram on the table and took a drag from his cigarette. Smoke rose lazily toward the ceiling.
"You've all read it, I assume."
The study was already filled with people. Zhou Enlai sat to Mao's right, holding a teacup. Beside him: Liu Shaoqi, Zhu De, Gao Gang. It was the first time the Party Central core had gathered since Kim Il-sung's southward invasion in June.
And in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, one more man. Peng Dehuai. Northwest Army commander. While the others sipped tea and smoked, he did nothing. Hands on his knees, waiting for Mao to speak.
Zhou Enlai spoke first. His voice was low and measured.
"The U.S. military's Incheon Landing Operation has completely reversed the tide. North Korean forces now have their supply lines severed, and the main force at the Nakdong River risks encirclement."
Liu Shaoqi set down his teacup.
"It's only a matter of time before the Americans retake Seoul and push to the 38th Parallel. The issue is what comes next. Will they stop at the 38th Parallel, or cross it?"
Mao's eyes turned to Liu Shaoqi. The gaze carried no emotion, which only added weight.
"What's your view?"
Liu Shaoqi chose his words carefully before replying.
"Unless the Americans cross the 38th Parallel, we have no pretext for intervention. The People's Republic has been established for just a year. Economic reconstruction is urgent, and the Taiwan issue remains unresolved. We lack the capacity to commit large forces to Korea..."
"Comrade Zhu De?"
Mao shifted his gaze before Liu finished. Zhu De, the old marshal and former commander-in-chief of the People's Liberation Army, pondered briefly before speaking.
"I agree with Comrade Liu Shaoqi. Unless they cross the 38th Parallel, intervention is premature. Our army isn't ready for modern warfare. No air force, no navy. Fighting a large-scale ground war under American air superiority would be..."
"Comrade Gao Gang."
"Same opinion. Jumping into war before the Northeast's industrial base is restored would be suicidal."
One after another, the same conclusion. No intervention unless they cross the 38th Parallel. It was rational. Seemed rational to anyone.
Mao stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray as he listened. No agreement or disagreement showed on his face. In his slow Hunan-accented drawl, he muttered,
"No lips, the teeth feel cold."
A short silence settled over the study. Only the light clink of Zhou Enlai's teacup on the table echoed.
"If North Korea falls, the Americans come to the Yalu River."
Mao's voice dropped a tone. He lit another cigarette. The match strike rang sharp in the room.
"Stop at the 38th Parallel? The Americans? MacArthur? Not even Syngman Rhee in the South?"
Liu Shaoqi fell silent. No one in the room could answer that with confidence.
Mao rose and walked to the wall map. A full map of the Korean Peninsula. The 38th Parallel slashed across it horizontally, red and blue markers scattered above and below.
His finger tapped the Yalu River. The China-North Korea border. If they faced off across that single river? If Manchuria's heavy industry bases fell within range of U.S. bombers?
"No intervention unless they cross the 38th Parallel. That's sound logic."
Mao turned back. His eyes gleamed through the cigarette smoke.
"But if they do cross?"
"Then we would need to discuss it."
Zhou Enlai's reply was cautious. Diplomat's language.
"We need a decision, Enlai."
Mao's tone shifted. The meeting's direction changed in that instant.
"Suppose—and I'm saying suppose—the Americans cross the 38th Parallel. If we must intervene militarily. Are we prepared?"
The air in the room froze. Even with the "suppose," Mao posing the question already implied the answer's direction.
Mao's gaze turned to the corner. Peng Dehuai. The man who had sat motionless lifted his head to meet it. A gaunt face etched with deep wrinkles. A soldier's face. One forged in the dust of battlefields.
"Dehuai."
Mao called him. Comrade's term. For an old war comrade.
"I want your military assessment."
Peng Dehuai said nothing for a moment. All eyes converged on him. Zhou Enlai's calm gaze, Liu Shaoqi's wary one, Zhu De's heavy one, Gao Gang's calculating one.
Peng Dehuai spoke. His voice was low and gravelly. The voice of a man who had spent a decade on the Northwest Front.
"The Americans' firepower is overwhelming."
From the first word, pure reality. No flattery.
"Air force, navy, artillery. They have everything we lack. A head-on fight on the Korean Peninsula would require us to accept heavy casualties."
Liu Shaoqi nodded. His argument validated.
Peng Dehuai didn't stop there.
"However."
Peng Dehuai turned the corner.